


A Day of Thanks-Giving

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 22:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21465574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Just what DOES make for a perfect Thanksgiving Day?  Turkey?  Pumpkin pie?  Sage and chestnut stuffing?  Sometimes, it's not what you'd think.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	A Day of Thanks-Giving

The question, one she'd thought would be an easy one, turned out not to be that, not at all. Actually, she was a little embarrassed because she wouldn't have thought to ask the question at all, if it hadn't been for Joe Anderson, her distant (very distant!) cousin who was the Base Commander at the nearest military base. 

He'd come to her, asking about possible sources for certain items for a small private gathering of friends - "A small holiday dinner at the Officers' Club, you see, the 23rd."

Once they got past her blank look, her momentary lack of understanding, "holiday? the twenty-third? Your gift-giving holiday? I thought that was in December, on the twenty-fifth" and his subsequent explanation, with a wry chuckle at how different their backgrounds really were. She didn't have a clue about Thanksgiving, but he knew she could rattle off the dates of the four Solstices, without hesitation, whereas he knew what a Solstice was, but beyond that, he would have had to look it up somewhere.

"No, you're thinking of Christmas, Meghada - that's always on the 25th of December. Thanksgiving is always the fourth Thursday in November, so the actual date varies."

Once she'd gotten that straightened out in her mind, and he'd explained what he was looking for, she'd been able to send him in the right direction for at least part of what he was wanting. She'd warned him he'd have better luck getting 'pumpkin' for those pies from an American military source, "perhaps in tins?", that not being something to be found locally. At least, not the kind he had in mind, the ones sometimes ventured for animal fodder not being suitable for such purposes. 

"Though, perhaps a spiced bread pudding? Although the spices you mentioned aren't so easy to lay your hands on now, either. You might check the diplomatic circles, if you have contacts there, perhaps the American Embassy? Or maybe a hazelnut and honey tart would satisfy your guests, and ingredients for those are obtainable; I could probably arrange that for you myself. But if your cooks try making one of your 'spiced pumpkin pies' with the local supplies, you'll be sadly disappointed, Joe."

And as for a turkey? 

"Perhaps you might find a goose acceptable instead?? The Arlin family in the next village over raise geese, and are usually amenable to selling one now and again."

Yes, her sister Caeide raised turkeys at Haven, but it was a small flock, strictly for Family use, and she could just hear Caeide now if anyone approached her about supplying a private dinner at the Officers' Club of a Yank military base from her precious flock. Even for a distant cousin like Joe Anderson. Eieeee!!!

His visit, though, had sent her mind in the direction of the guys at the Mansion. She had formed the habit of hosting them whenever the timing was right - when both they and she were available, when it would be especially meaningful, for whatever reason. Was THIS one of those times when she should be thinking of a special dinner? It was an American holiday, and three of the men were, two weren't; she certainly wasn't. She just wasn't sure, and if she did, then what would be involved?

Instead of guessing, she decided it was best to ask so she could deliver what would be most familiar, most what they would expect from a 'Thanksgiving Day dinner'. Hopefully at least SOME of it would be doable, provided they didn't have their minds set on that pumpkin pie!

The answers she got to that simple question didn't help a lot, not in the way she'd thought they would, though.

She'd asked the question over drinks, which is how she approached most conversations with them. They seemed to talk easier that way, and it gave her some internal support for the mental adjustments she usually had to make in understanding those who had been reared Outlanders. Of course, these men weren't really Outlanders anymore, not to her and her family, but still, the roots were entrenched enough there was often a lot she didn't know, didn't really understand.

Yes, the bourbon and whiskey had helped; indeed, without it she doubted they would have shared their thoughts on this 'Thanksgiving Day', might never have heard their memories spoken aloud. 

Somehow, though, none of what she heard seemed to be a reason to celebrate the day. SHE'D be more likely to broach a full bottle and hope it took the memories away, had it been her!

Actually, Chief had never known one of those 'Thanksgiving Dinners', except for the slight improvement in the meals in prison on that day, and not always then. Seems while the state might budget for that, the Wardens didn't always think it was warranted, at least for a portion of the prison population. He was usually in that 'not warranted' group, could only remember one exception, and even then had ended up having to fight to protect what there was for long enough for him to eat it. If funds had been made available for a special meal at the 'schools' and 'homes' he'd experienced earlier than that, the results had never made it into the food lines, though possibly into the pockets of those administering those funds.

Actor had experienced it, with some of his hoity New York society friends, but it had involved just another fancy meal in elegant clothes at a fine hotel. Champagne, caviar, oysters, and such, with nothing much that would have reminded the common man-on-the-street of what HE would have considered a proper Thanksgiving, except for the addition of a turkey galantine, cranberry martinis and some miniature spiced pumpkin timbalines on the dessert table. No, frankly, the man-on-the-street wouldn't have recognized any of that in connection with the holiday. And as for the jellying of unfortunate barnyard fowl, well, Meghada had pretty strong views on such abominations!

Goniff knew what it was, theoretically, mostly from a similar source as Chief, and what he'd heard and read, but for him, November meant Guy Fawkes Day and Armistice Day, fireworks and bonfires and speeches and beer. Though he wasn't likely to turn down roasted turkey and all the rest if it passed in front of him, it wasn't as if it struck a personal chord, just more that, being Goniff, he wasn't likely to turn down food of any sort for any reason. Well, except for apples. Unless he was literally starving, he drew the line at apples.

Casino had grown up with the holiday, it being one his parents had celebrated, if more from a visible-sign-of-assimilation motive, to appease any who thought being Italian-American, first generation children born to immigrant parents, meant being not really 'American', more than anything else. 

He'd made the mandatory little paper turkeys in school, along with all the other kids, learned how to make gobbling sounds and could do one hell of a shadow-turkey on the wall, and had been smart enough to show enthusiasm for the school play. He knew not to mention that the meal on his family's table would run more to Italian wedding soup and homemade pasta laden with rich sauces and little ricotta-filled pastries than to turkey and such. 

Of course, there WOULD be a pumpkin pie; it formed the expected centerpiece, rising in glory in the middle of the table on that footed china cake plate his mom prized so much, though no one really considered it edible. 

Casino's mom insisted on having one each year, though; figured if anyone outside the family asked about THEIR Thanksgiving dinner, they could always rave about their favorite part being the 'beautiful pumpkin pie'. 

She had firmly told everyone that it was not necessary to mention that no one did more than take a token fork-full, and most years, well, ALL years after that first pie was presented, no one even did that. 

In later years, when he finally forced, truly FORCED!, himself to taste someone else's pumpkin pies, Casino would figure out that his mom had seen no sense in wasting expensive spices or sugar (or eggs or cream, for that matter) in a pie made from what she considered 'farm animal fodder'. For her, it was a 'centerpiece', much like a bouquet of flowers would have been - pretty, but something to be seen, not eaten. 

Looking back, he wasn't even sure it hadn't been the SAME pie, the untouched one from that second year, maybe glazed with shellac to preserve it, placed into storage after the holiday, pulled out the next year. 

"Caught her using a little brush on it one year, like she was brushing the dust off the top, so she mighta done that. That'd be like my mom; no sense in wasting new flour and such when the old pie was still looking good. Probably woulda tasted just as good as it would've when it was fresh baked too," he'd laughed.

Craig Garrison and his sister Lynn? They remembered the Garrison family Thanksgiving dinners very well. First, attending long drawn-out church services in their best clothes, a dinner laid out in the big dining room with the crisp white linen-clad table graced with candles in silver holders, the finest dishes and silver, and food they saw at no other time of the year. 

Of course, as children, they never SAT at that table; never had, actually, even as they grew older, not on Thanksgiving, as their parents never stopped thinking of them as children, or perhaps never started thinking of them as individuals worthy of all that elegance. 

There was a decided lack of affection in that expression, 'the children', Craig had always thought, at least when their parents used it regarding the two of them. It had always had a grim, duty-laden tone, like Lynn and Craig were a burden the elder Garrisons were required to endure to uphold their place in the community, but couldn't imagine enjoying having around. 

That tone was in decided contrast to the avuncular if slightly stiff tone their father used towards those in the Sunday School class he taught, and even more so from the smarmy-sweet tones their mother used toward 'those poor sweet little dears' at the orphanage where she sat on the Advisory Board.

No, the dining room table was not for 'children'. It was reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Garrison, Chief Tompkins and his wife Louise, Reverend Matthews and his spinster sister Doris, and whichever notables the upstanding pillar-of-the-community Garrisons elected to honor with an invitation. 

There were never any other children in attendance, and Craig and Lynn had their plates seated on the floor in solitary companionship on either side of the folding butler table which had been moved, temporarily, into the pantry next to the kitchen and draped with heavy towels. Well, there was linoleum in there, not carpet, so they would not inadvertently cause a mess for their mother to deal with later. 

Frankly, they'd not minded all that much; they enjoyed each other's company and the meal far more than they would have in the dining room, having to be on their best behavior and playing the part of 'perfect children' for the smug self-esteem of their parents.

A time or two Craig or Lynn had been invited to take Thanksgiving Dinner at the homes of one of their school friends, but the elder Garrisons had always insisted "Thanksgiving Dinner is a time for family," and never permitted it. Even as young as they were, Craig and Lynn were well aware of the irony of that declared position, knowing once they'd outgrown the pantry, they'd been seated at the kitchen table, still well away from their parents and guests.

It wasn't til Craig went to college, supposedly too far away to get home for Thanksgiving and be back for classes, that he experienced something different, and it was much the same for Lynn.

Now, watching the expressions on their faces as they sipped their drinks, listening to each of them tell what Thanksgiving Day, Thanksgiving dinner had meant for them in the past, Meghada was at a momentary loss. Was she supposed to try and duplicate those less-than-heartwarming experiences? Surely not!

Soon, however, the thought of Thanksgiving, the day or a dinner, sped out of everyone's mind. Meghada had been sent to a destination unknown to anyone other than herself and her Handler, ETA unknown as well.

Before she returned, a mission on the Continent had taken the team away, and their anticipated return date well past-due. Meghada had returned, checked and got a frustrated shrug from Sergeant Major Rawlins. 

"Was expecting them back by now, but no word from HQ, Miss. I know them up there don't understand me possibly worrying about them, but you'd think they'd understand I need to 'ave SOME idea, just to do my job!"

She'd agreed wholeheartedly, had fumed at the lack of information she was getting from her usual sources as well, til finally a triumphant Jeffrey Ames had sent her word. 

"They're on their way back; a little worse for wear, as I've heard, but all upright and likely to remain so. I knew you'd want to know as soon as we heard! They should be back at the Mansion tomorrow sometime."

That huge sigh of relief was immediately followed by one of frustration. This 'Thanksgiving Day' was only two days away, and she'd given it no more thought, had nothing planned, and even knowing they'd be back by then, still had a strong disinclination to recreate any of those depressing memories.

Well, if she couldn't offer them a 'Thanksgiving Dinner' like Joe had been going on about, and really feeling that would hit a sour note even if she COULD have done so, perhaps a 'thanks-giving dinner' more akin to one her own family would have prepared might suit. And the timing WAS right, for it was truly 'thanks-giving' she needed to be giving, for them coming home alive and upright. A quick call to London to let Lynn know what she was planning, inviting Craig's sister to join them if she could get away, and she was ready to give the matter serious consideration.

A strong pot of chicory coffee later, a lot of serious consideration of the problem being aided by a heavy incursion into that new bottle of bourbon, she looked down at her pad and gave a firm nod. 

"Yes, this feels right. It's what I CAN offer them, and it's similar to what Mum has done many a time for us. Hopefully it will not be a disappointment to them."

She'd spent the next day in the woods behind the cottage, and when she returned, she looked at her spoils in satisfaction. Game - squirrel, rabbit, quail; walnuts and hazelnuts; honey she'd stolen from that wild hive so carefully she'd gotten not even one sting, still leaving the bees plenty to make it through the winter safely; the last of the grapes that ran rampant along the far edge, not a huge amount, but enough to make an elegant conserve when cooked down and mixed with some of the chopped walnuts. The pears she bartered with Mrs. Wilson for, them striking an easy deal that left them both pleased.

Sergeant Major had promised to send the men, Garrison included, down to her the next noonday, and by then she would have things well in hand. She got little sleep as she bustled around, trying to prepare things that she thought might please, and that coffee pot got more of a workout than it usually did during those hours. Still, she would not complain; this was a blessing her Sweet Mother had given to her, the opportunity to offer this to her laddie, to his love, to their brothers and sister. 

As for the men? They'd spent the past week up to their eyeballs in shit, bullets, deception, betrayal and sheer flat-out might-as-well-kill-you-just-because-we-want-to idiots. They'd forgotten about her questions about Thanksgiving, forgotten about the date, hell, forgotten about most everything except the necessity of getting out of the line of fire and the possibility of finally getting some sleep and some decent food.

To get back, collapse onto the closest available flat surface, that had been enough. They'd roused up, thinking to grab a fast bite and crash again. Instead, they had been greeted by the news that they were expected at The Cottage for a Thanksgiving Day meal. That had been been - well, not so much unwelcome, as unexpected. 

Oh, okay, so maybe the others really HAD thought they'd prefer to just sleep for another twenty-four hours, even if it meant giving up a home-cooked meal. 

But Goniff got on their case, him near salivating at the idea of the orgasmic, if imaginary dinner he was already picturing waiting for them. 

"You KNOW 'ow 'Gaida is w'en she gets in the mood for cooking!", he'd pleaded and chivied in turn.

And the Sergeant Major hadn't stopped bitching at them to move their ungrateful stumps, "after all the trouble the O'Donnell miss has likely gone to!", so they'd pulled themselves up and into the shower, and headed off. 

Frankly, none of them were looking forward to it, hoped she wouldn't try to go all 'traditional' on them. None of them, NONE of them!, were really in the mood for that. They'd be happy with some good bread and a good hearty soup, considering they hadn't even had that during that last job. Talk about running on empty!

They'd arrived, fallen out of the jeep, and headed in, hoping she wouldn't get all 'and this is Thanksgiving and aren't we blessed!' on them. It didn't really seem all that much LIKE her, especially since she hadn't been all that sure about the particulars of Thanksgiving in the first place, but still, they really weren't in the mood. 

Well, it HAD been a bad mission, that informant being dead before they'd even arrived. Then, a trap it had taken everything they had to get out of alive. Finally the trip home in a submarine that had drawn the attention of an enemy ship above, resulting in some heavy tossing around. The sub only developed a few minor leaks, but it had been touch and go there for awhile. The finale had been a debriefing by Major Kingston at his most passive-aggressive bitchy best. Add all that to a severe lack of sleep, and, yes, they were a little grumpy.

She'd greeted them quietly, but with genuine warmth, pushed a glass of liquid cheer into each man's hand, pointed them in the direction of an appetizer table set up in the small seating area, and basically left them alone while she fussed in the kitchen. Well, she would have picked up on their mood easily enough, even without that warning call from Sergeant Major Rawlins. She'd been on enough difficult missions to empathize.

{"So maybe this isn't gonna be as rough as we thought,"} Casino shrugged, as he sipped that drink - excellent whiskey! - and surveyed what had been laid out. {"Damn! She and my mom, they got more in common than I ever figured!"} viewing the abundant food laid out on the folding table, as well as the sideboard, just waiting for them to give it all a try.

Goniff was busy taking it all in, figuring out what he wanted to sample first. Garrison and Chief watched in amusement as he dithered between the sharp cheddar-encased toasted almonds, the bacon-wrapped whatevers (later to be pronounced broiled spicy chicken livers), crispy chicken wings with a sauce alongside for dipping, the herbed cream cheese crackers, and the deviled eggs with horseradish and red pepper. Seemingly he'd decided it ALL warranted a good sampling, and following his lead, they couldn't say he didn't have the right of it. 

Casino and Actor dove in as well, Casino not bothering to complain for once, and Actor even declining to make desultory comparisons to what he had once had in some far past lifetime.

The sideboard was bare, now, and just as Goniff swallowed that last deviled egg, the men were directed to the table in the kitchen, just big enough for everyone to fit. And it was crammed with whatever she thought might please them, and she could put her hands to, and from the looks of it, she'd gauged it just right. Certainly no one looked overly DIS-pleased; to the contrary, the smiles seemed to indicate she'd not done so poorly, the tension and fatigue no longer so apparent.

Now she looked around the table, her contented gaze on each in turn, Goniff, Craig, Chief, Casino, Actor, even Lynn managing to hurry down from London in time to dash through that kitchen door at least for the main course - noting the various bruises and other signs of injury, also noting the eager smiles of anticipation. 

She took a deep breath, settled into herself as she'd been taught as a very small child, and lifted both hands, palms down, over her plate, focusing her eyes on the one tall thick candle glowing in the middle of the table.

"Thanks do I give you, Sweet Mother Erdu. Thanks for the harvest that gives us nourishment, that has sustained us in seasons past, that will sustain us over the winter ahead. 

"Thanks do I give you for the sweet rain that you send to strengthen us, the sunshine to warm our face, the clouds to cool us. 

"Thanks do I give for family and friends, who join their hands to ours in doing what needs to be done; who place their shoulders next to ours in helping to bear the burdens that must be carried; whose love and caring sustain us in good times and ill. 

"Thanks do I also give for your warm concern, your sharing of the teachings that provide the basis for our lives. 

"And, on this day, do I most sincerely give thanks for your returning these men, this woman, my Ashtore, my Treasure, safely home, and most humbly ask your continued blessings on them, that they may continue to go forth with success, returning in triumph from that which they have been sent to do, able to rest their minds and bodies and spirits in the safety of your arms.

"Thanks do I give you, Sweet Mother Erdu, for this and all else that has been given to us."

The lit candle flared, once, twice, thrice, a glow surrounding the entire table and all who sat there, gradually ebbing away.

Meghada smiled in contentment at that sign that her thanks-giving had been heard and found acceptable in the sight of the Sweet Mother.

"You are each welcome to share your own prayers or blessings or thanks, as is your own custom, if you wish," she'd offered, knowing they might have their own ways, not wanting to deny them that. After all, she had been taught, there was no One True Way.

Those sitting around her table looked at each other, then at her, smiling, each thinking of what they'd just heard.

"I think you have covered it quite well, Meghada, without our adding anything," Actor declared.

"Well, I think there's something we need to add," Chief, of all people, announced, getting a few looks of surprise.

And then he spoke, his eyes on that tall candle, though his hands remained where they were, uncertain whether copying that gesture would be taken the wrong way or not. (In later years, he'd not hesitate, but for now, he was still feeling his way.)

"And we thank you for the welcome we found here. Thank you for the home you've given us, a home we never expected to find, brothers and sisters - a family we never thought we'd have. Thank you."

And a quiet round of nods, a soft intonation from each came in return. 

"Thank you," echoed in the warm kitchen, and that candle flared once again, even brighter than before, taking even longer for the glow to diminish.

"So," Goniff asked eagerly, "w'at is everything? It all looks great!"

Casino ribbed him. "If it all looks great, then why do you have to know what it all is?"

The pickpocked looked at Casino like he was being slightly dense. 

"Well, 'Gaida gets the notion to fuss around in the kitchen again, 'ow will I know w'at to ask for, if I don't know w'at it is now?"

That garnered a laugh, and Meghada gladly pointed out the game fricassee in its rich gravy, meant to be served over the big fluffy baking-powder biscuits, the roasted garden vegetables with golden flecks of garlic showing here and there, the huge potato casserole with its crispy browned top crust, the grape conserve, along with the big bowl of hot bitter greens with pieces of bacon scattered throughout. 

"And a pear and hazelnut tart for afters, and spiced nuts and cheese pastry puffs for sharing with drinks later."

Somehow, laying in their beds, their cots that night, no one really cared that there had been no pumpkin pie or turkey. To their minds, everything had been absolutely perfect, just as it was.


End file.
